Saratoga (44 page)

"I'm sorry. I have to do this."

Skoyles felt the urge to offer his hand in an improbable gesture of friendship, but Reuben was bent on slaughter. Hauling himself up, he cocked a leg over the palisade then took aim at point-blank range. Skoyles had no time even to think. His sword flashed again, knocking the barrel of the musket aside even as it discharged its bullet. In another lightning movement, Skoyles turned the point of his sword on Reuben Proudfoot and thrust hard under his ribs until he pierced the heart. Only when he had withdrawn his weapon did Skoyles realize what he had done. He felt a stab of guilt. Reuben, meanwhile, had dropped his musket and now fell forward into the arms of the man who had killed him. Skoyles caught him, laid him gently on the ground, and had a moment's sad reflection before he rejoined the fray. Reuben Proudfoot vanished instantly from his mind. With a speed born of long practice, Skoyles went through the sequence of actions needed to reload his musket. He then peered through a gap in the logs.

The rebels had been driven back but they were massing for another attack. Cantering up and down in front of them, exhorting them on to victory, was a startling figure on a mettlesome horse. He wore the uniform of a major general and seemed to be heedless of danger. Skoyles knew him by sight, name, and reputation. It was Benedict Arnold, a soldier who brought his own brand of madness to the battlefield and who had the same uplifting effect on the rebels as Simon Fraser had had on the British. Nothing but total mastery of the field would satisfy Arnold. He wanted to obliterate the enemy.

Skoyles slid his musket through the gap and bided his time. When the demented rider came within range again, Skoyles pulled the trigger, but he had not aimed at Arnold. Instead, he brought down the horse. It collapsed and rolled over, pinioning its rider and breaking the leg that had been fractured before at Quebec. Seeing what had happened to their leader, the infantry stormed the redoubt again. Skoyles heard Arnold's voice rise above the din.

"Don't hurt the soldier who did this," he bellowed. "I hold no grudge. He was only doing his duty!"

It could not be said of those around Skoyles. Short of ammunition and seeing the futility of fighting on, many of the Germans began to forget their duty. They left the barricade and ran. Colonel Breymann went berserk, hurling abuse at his men and lashing out at them sword. The musket ball that killed him came from a German weapon. One of his docile grenadiers had been pushed too far by the tyrannical officer. It was the signal for a stampede. Freed from the attentions of their harsh and unpopular colonel, the rest of the men abandoned their post and fled. In order to avoid capture, Jamie Skoyles went with them.

The battle of Bemis Heights was, effectively, over.

General Horatio Gates understood the true meaning of the American victory. Led by him, soldiers, who, in many cases, had never even borne arms in battle before, had humbled the finest army in the world. It was a result that would echo loudly throughout the thirteen states and bring thousands more to the rebel cause. Though he had never stirred from his tent during the encounter, Gates felt able to take considerable credit for the success. His timing had been perfect. Coming into the commander's tent, Ezekiel Proudfoot was among the first to congratulate him.

"Well done, General!" he said, shaking his hand. "There'll be plaudits from Congress and from General Washington after this."

"The approval of Congress will be welcome, but I care nothing for Washington's opinion. He loses too many battles."

"You have just won a famous victory that even our commander in chief must acknowledge."

"I was determined to vanquish Gentleman Johnny."

"You rubbed his nose in the dirt. This has made your name, sir. You'll henceforth be known as the hero of Saratoga."

"We had thousands of heroes in the field today," said Gates with an attempt at modesty. "Each one deserves his share of the glory."

"One, in particular," noted Proudfoot. "General Arnold."

Gates bridled. "All that he deserves is a stern rebuke. He willfully disobeyed my orders yet again."

"But he led the troops magnificently, sir."

"He should not even have been there," said Gates, petulantly. "I stripped him of his command. When I heard that he'd joined the battle, I sent a man after him to recall him but Arnold outran the fellow."

"I can vouch for that, sir. I saw him clearly from my position in a tall tree. General Arnold rode hell for leather into the enemy lines as if intending to take on the whole army by himself. He set the most inspiring example to others."

"Insubordination is never inspiring, Ezekiel. What would happen if every soldier flouted my orders? There'd be anarchy on the battlefield." He sniffed loudly and pushed his glasses up his nose. "How is he now?"

"Still in great pain. They brought him back to camp on a litter."

"The man is lucky to be alive," said Gates, "and we must all be grateful for that. But he is still an arrant fool." He glanced at Proudfoot's sketchbook. "I hope that you did not waste your time on a drawing of Benedict Arnold. He's not worthy of it."

"I disagree," said Proudfoot stoutly. "I did sketch the general but, in truth, he deserves a portrait in oils."

Colonel James Wilkinson came briskly into the tent.

"Do we have any idea of casualties yet?" asked Gates.

"Yes, sir," replied Wilkinson. "Early reports suggest that the British lost almost nine hundred men, killed, wounded, or taken prisoner. We've only had thirty deaths listed so far, with less than a hundred wounded."

"And no prisoners?"

"None, General. They were in no state to take prisoners."

"Those figures are miraculous," said Gates. "We've not only beaten the redcoats, we've kept our army largely intact."

"And captured all of their artillery," Wilkinson observed. "We've drawn their teeth, sir. The British cannot bite back."

"How long will it be before they accept that?"

"General Burgoyne will not surrender easily," said Proudfoot.

"His pride will keep our demands at bay for a while," Gates decided, "but his position will grow weaker every day. We have him surrounded. His army has been reduced to a shambling remnant of the mighty force with which he set out from Canada, and he's lost some of his best officers. His men are on short rations. They've no spirit to take us on again. All we have to do is wait."

"Clinton is still coming up the Hudson Valley," Wilkinson noted.

"He'll not be here for a while yet—and Burgoyne knows it. We'll keep Gentleman Johnny bottled up here, and harass his pickets day and night with skirmishers." Gates's smile was cold and calculating. "We'll bring the great beast to his knees in time."

The tent flap was held back and a tentative head appeared.

"I've a message for you, General," said the newcomer. "Delivered under a flag of truce." The officer stepped into the tent to hand over the missive. "If there's to be a reply, sir, I can deliver it."

"Thank you." Gates opened the letter. "It's from General Burgoyne," he explained as he read it, "written on behalf of Lady Harriet Acland, requesting permission for her to be admitted to our camp so that she can nurse her husband. She's heard that he was badly wounded."

"True, sir," said Wilkinson. "Major Acland was shot in both legs."

"Then his wife must be allowed to be with him," Gates announced, sitting down to dash off a note authorizing the visit. "Deliver this to the lady and ensure that she's treated with the utmost respect." He handed the note to the messenger. "Let them see that we are magnanimous in victory." He waited until the man had left before speaking. "It may help to bring their surrender a little closer."

The British army had tasted victory so often in decisive battles that it did not quite know how to cope with a crushing defeat. Jamie Skoyles shared the general malaise. He and his fellow soldiers moved about in a daze. In the immediate aftermath of the battle, there were duties to be done and Skoyles met all his responsibilities. He first scoured the field in order to rescue wounded soldiers, then he helped to organize burial details for those who had perished in the fray. The numbers on the death roll were horrifyingly high.

When his work was finished, he reported to General Burgoyne so that he could take part in the collective recrimination of the officer corps. It was a grim experience. The commander in chief tried to wrest some glory from the day, but Skoyles preferred to accept the bitter truth. They had been hounded from the battlefield by a finer army, inspired by a superior vision. While the redcoats fought merely to subdue colonial ambition, the rebels set their sights on freedom. The motley army of Horatio Gates wanted a way of life that was not controlled from three thousand miles away in England.

Skoyles did not win any popularity when he pointed this out to his colleagues, most of whom were still searching for excuses to lessen the impact of their comprehensive defeat. He was shouted down more than once. Relieved when it was all over, Skoyles trudged back to his tent, wanting nothing more than the chance to clean himself up, reflect on what had happened, and give his weary body a rest. He needed to be alone for a while. Skoyles was shocked and sobered, therefore, when he discovered that a visitor was waiting in his tent.

Seeing the dried blood on his face, Maria Quinn ran to him.

"You've been wounded, Jamie!"

"It's nothing serious," he said. "I picked up a few scratches, that's all. Save your sympathy for those with real injuries."

"I watched them being brought into the field hospital on stretchers. They were in a terrible state. There was nothing at all that we could do for many of them."

"I know, Maria."

There was a long pause. Standing so close to her, Skoyles felt awkward and slightly ashamed. The last time she had come of her own volition to his tent, he had reached out gratefully for her. He could not do that now and she sensed his reluctance.

"You gave me your word, Jamie," she said, quietly. "You promised that I'd see you again before you went into battle."

"There was no time," he told her, prevaricating. "General Burgoyne made the decision on the spur of the moment, and we were called to arms. I didn't even have a chance to get a message to you, Maria."

"Yes, you did."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not the only woman who followed this army because of a man," said Maria sharply. "There are dozens of us. When the word spread that there might be another battle next day, most of the women were sent for. I was one of the few left behind. That was the message that Captain Skoyles had for me. I was not wanted."

He hung his head. "I'm sorry about that."

"So was I, Jamie. You've always kept your promises before."

"I know," he admitted, feeling guiltier than ever, "but it just wasn't possible this time, Maria. There were too many things to do. An officer has responsibilities. There were preparations to make."

"Then why weren't you here to make them?"

"What?"

"I waited for hours," said Maria accusingly. "I came to this tent and waited half the night for the man who had asked me to leave Montreal so that I could be with him."

"That's not what I said," he corrected. "I didn't ask you to come, Maria. You were the one who suggested it. I told you that I could give no firm commitments. We'd be at the mercy of the fortunes of war."

"But you didn't try to stop me, did you?"

"No," he conceded, "I was glad that you came. I was touched."

"Then what happened?" she asked, adopting a softer tone and caressing his shoulder with her palm. "I thought that we wanted each other, Jamie. I'd have gone anywhere in the world to be with you—yet you couldn't spare me that one night. Why not?"

"Maria," he said, taking her by the wrist to stop her stroking him, "I didn't mean it to turn out this way. When I made that promise, I intended to keep it. You're very dear to me. But," he went on, steeling himself to tell her the truth, "someone else has come into my life and my feelings for you are not quite the same any more. However," he added, hastily, as he saw fury in her eyes, "I hope that we can still be friends."

"Friends!" she said, scornfully. "I didn't come all the way from Canada simply to be friends with you."

"It was bound to end some time."

"Yes, but not like this. What kind of a man are you? How could you pretend that I was your lover when your mind was on someone else? It's so cruel, Jamie. It's so hurtful."

"It was not deliberate."

"I thought you were mine."

"I was, Maria—for a time."

"But only until you found someone better."

"That's not what happened," he said earnestly. "I didn't go looking for anyone, I swear. I didn't need to when I had you. But I was carried away by the turn of events. It's the only way I can explain it."

"Oh, I think there was a much simpler explanation than that."

"No, Maria."

"You had your fill of me," she said bitterly, "then tossed me away without a second thought."

"It's not true."

"Don't tell me any more lies. I've heard more than enough already. I can see that I was mistaken in you, so—if you'll forgive me, Captain Skoyles—I won't offer you my friendship." She pushed past him and opened the flap of the tent. "You don't deserve it."

"Maria!"

He reached out to stop her, but she was gone. Skoyles was rightly chastened. It had been a painful encounter, but her censure was just. He had behaved badly to her. In choosing Elizabeth Rainham, he was trying to turn his back on a former existence that was symbolized by Maria Quinn. None of them would escape unhurt. Maria had been the first and most obvious victim. Skoyles had agonized for hours before rejecting her, and he was now smarting from her retaliation.

Elizabeth would also suffer. She had only given herself to him because she was ignorant of Maria's existence and of that element in his character that drove Skoyles to become involved with such women. When she learned the truth—and he was determined to be honest with her—it would cause her immense heartache. What he did not know was whether her love was strong enough to accommodate it. Skoyles flopped down onto his camp bed. Having lost on the battlefield, he felt as if he had just endured a more personal defeat.